Crony and Luce had made Stain believe she belonged with them; but all the while they’d been hoarding the only true belongings she ever had. Even her rescue had been a lie. There were reasons . . . ulterior motives, mysteries that made up her entire existence, that they’d either sold on the market to degenerates and criminals, hidden out of her reach, or given away as a bargaining tactic.
She’d never been able to view all the trinkets hanging in the house; without Crony’s magic animating them, it was no better than looking through a glass pane: a transparent backdrop to a colorless, unseeable past. Luce admitted they’d found her lifeless body spilling out of a coffin, about to be eaten. They’d had to bargain with the shrouds for her release, though he didn’t say what they bargained with.
It was said that Nerezethite sun-smugglers used to come to Crony’s shop and purchase memories to trade for their lives on the chance they should get trapped by the voracious creatures.
Shrouds craved humanness in all facets: flesh, spirit, or memories.
It made sense that Crony and Luce might have given the shrouds Stain’s past in exchange for her future. If so, the creatures had absorbed details about her prior life into their shared consciousness, the very details her guardians didn’t want her to know.
She moved the bag’s strap higher on her shoulder. The kinder sleep memory chimes tinkled against one another—animated and tempting. She would offer them as a trade to the vaporous corpses: fresh memories for stale information.
Stain took a step sideways as a sudden wave of dizziness smeared her surroundings to mottled blacks, pale greens, and grays—as if she were trapped in a cylinder of spinning glass herself. Fear collided with hunger and heartache, and she sat upon the path. She stretched her legs, avoiding the sticky liquid sunshine that dotted the trunks beside the briar curtain. Her feet cried out, aching to be released from their prisons of soles, heels, and laces. But it was her heart that was truly trapped, entombed within a body scarred from head to toe, yet as nondescript as a pile of bones. She had been hoping Scorch’s need for her help would outweigh his anger. But in truth, she needed him now. She needed his cynicism and wisdom to talk her out of doing this.
Elbows on her knees, she cupped her temples and shut her eyes, willing the world to stop spinning so her disjointed thoughts might do the same.
Scorch, where are you?
She took her favorite memory of him and spun it like a web within the dark swirl of her consciousness, hoping it might capture Scorch’s own thoughts, remind him of their bond, and bring him out of hiding.
In this memory, Stain and Scorch had snuck out during the cessation course, as the best adventures were had while most everyone slept . . . when the hazy, greenish-gray world belonged to them alone. A group of thieving minstrels had passed through the ravine, and a gala was in full swing at the Wayward Tavern. Stain had peered within the tree’s opened windows where the musicians played fiddles, lutes, and percussion instruments. Dancers in fancy dresses and suits—with threadbare hems and tarnished embellishments—filled the hollowed-out trunk. The scent of ale and a comingling of warm food and body odor wafted out with the music.
The rhythm made Stain’s feet warm and twitchy. Much like walking, or signing with her hands, dancing was a skill she’d retained, though she couldn’t grasp its origins. She wriggled in her boots and swished the hems of her breeches, pretending she wore a wide-swinging skirt with a fringe of lace. Her nose wrinkled as she attempted the fancy steps.
Scorch nudged her away from the window. They walked out of view of the tavern until the trees surrendered to a small clearing. The music reached across the hazy distance.
What were you doing there, with your feet? Scorch asked. And why was your nose crinkled?
Stain shrugged. I was concentrating . . . pretending to dance in a ballroom. To spin among candlelit sconces, under an ornamented ceiling, alongside a graceful partner. That would be a grand adventure.
His tail snapped in derision. Rather more like a waste of time.
Of course, you wouldn’t understand. She wriggled in her boots and swished her hems again. Horses can’t dance.
His ears flattened. I can dance as well as any man. Whickering, he shook hundreds of embers free of his mane until they lifted in the air. His wings flapped, stirring half of them to drift upward, imprinting their glow on the velvety canopy overhead. The rest of the lights floated around them until their surroundings resembled an arbor made of fireflies.
Scorch huffed. There’s your ballroom.
Stain gasped, marveling at the beauty of it. She reached up to blot appreciative tears from her cheeks, but none were there—regardless that her eyes pricked.
Scorch lowered his long neck and bent a lithe, graceful foreleg in a bow worthy of any gentleman. Then, he pranced within the circle of embers, keeping time with the music—his tail flared out elegantly like a flag of silk, his legs stepping high.
So awestruck by his expertise, Stain simply gaped.
I’m too graceful a dancer for you, then? He asked, paused in mid-prance. Pitiful. A human game, yet I beat you at it like any other.
She shook her head, unwilling to be bested. After a proper curtsy, she spun to the music alongside his prancing hooves . . . spinning and spinning until her surroundings blurred and the embers streaked inside her eyes to ribbons of yellow-orange light. Giddy and breathless, she fell on her back into a plume of ash, laughing.
Scorch trotted up and snuffed her fuzzed head. He then sat on his hindquarters to gawk at her. Humans are strange creatures. Moved to tears by emotions. Moved to laughter by physical exertion. And you, tiny trifling thing, are the strangest of them all.
She took that to mean she was the most human of all, and thanked him profusely, only to laugh again when he assured her it was nothing to be proud of. But she had been proud, for even if she didn’t know where she belonged, she knew with whom she belonged.
Stain’s chest tightened on the memory; reliving it alone only made her feel lonelier. She no longer knew with whom she belonged. She wasn’t the foundling boy she pretended to be. She wasn’t the companion to a harrower witch and sylph team who robbed the dead and gave their memories life. She couldn’t remember Eldoria or Nerezeth—only the in-between.
She had no identity; nothing that could serve as compass or beacon in this dry, powdery, gray world where she had never fit. Even the crooked shop owners had histories: places they’d come from, purposes to serve.
Her closed eyes prickled—refusing her the satisfaction a few tears might offer. Tasting the salty flavor of heartache upon one’s lips was what made the pain one’s own. Without that experience, even her losses felt as if they belonged to someone else.
Stain opened her eyes to find her dizziness gone. Standing, she stomped both her feet so the torn skin along her soles and ankles would throb. The pain grounded her, assured her the one true friend who helped her feel anchored and strong was still out there.
Scorch . . . I want to help you. And I could use your help, too. Where are you?
She caught a breath upon hearing what sounded like a muffled whinny from below. What if he had wandered within accidentally? He might be dazed if he’d lost enough blood, or even feverish. She didn’t know how a Pegasus’s body or mind reacted to trauma if he couldn’t fly to heal. The shrouds were known for playing tricks on the mind, yet she couldn’t dismiss the possibility her friend was trapped down there and needed her. Her desire to find him, and to find herself, trumped all caution.
Crouching, she used exposed roots and low-hanging branches for anchorage during her descent. A stray quag-puddle—souring the air with its putrid stench—lapped at her heel, but she rolled her hips to the other side of a tree, sending the burbling murk off in another direction.
She arrived at the bottom sooner than expected, and only then did her caution return in the form of countless white, piercing eyes. She didn’t see Scorch anywhere. Clenching the bag at her shoulder, she reminded herself of her other reason to brave this cursed lowland, and stepped forward as vapory, black silhouettes glided out from behind the trees to surround her.
Her shapeless captors stirred the thin layer of ash covering the ground, causing a misty effect. One skimmed closer, faded to a washed-out white, as gauzy as the clean muslin bandages in Stain’s bag. This shroud grew lithe-limbed and slender, morphing to a woman’s torso and face. Black, bony obtrusions appeared, giving the impression of a beak and horns.
The creature leaned across Stain and breathed the scent of must and decay. “Our lost boy has returned.”
Bitter regret knotted in Stain’s throat; if they thought her a boy, they hadn’t absorbed her memories. Crony must have them hidden away, meaning Stain had endangered herself for nothing.
“I am Mistress Umbra, mother of the Shroud Collective. We are your ancestors. Those who lost their minds to the promise of darkness and rest centuries ago. You have two choices: become one of us and strengthen our cerebral framework, or offer your flesh for us to consume. Should you not choose, we choose for you.”